"Then on guard again!" cried the young squire, and sprang in with a fire
and a fury which more than made up for the shortness of his weapon. It
had not escaped him that his opponent was breathing in short, hoarse
gasps, like a man who is dizzy with fatigue. Now was the time for the
purer living and the more agile limb to show their value. Back and back
gave Tranter, ever seeking time for a last cut. On and on came Alleyne,
his jagged point now at his foeman's face, now at his throat, now at
his chest, still stabbing and thrusting to pass the line of steel which
covered him. Yet his experienced foeman knew well that such efforts
could not be long sustained. Let him relax for one instant, and his
death-blow had come. Relax he must! Flesh and blood could not stand
the strain. Already the thrusts were less fierce, the foot less ready,
although there was no abatement of the spirit in the steady gray eyes.
Tranter, cunning and wary from years of fighting, knew that his chance
had come. He brushed aside the frail weapon which was opposed to him,
whirled up his great blade, sprang back to get the fairer sweep--and
vanished into the waters of the Garonne.

So intent had the squires, both combatants and spectators, been on
the matter in hand, that all thought of the steep bank and swift still
stream had gone from their minds. It was not until Tranter, giving back
before the other's fiery rush, was upon the very brink, that a general
cry warned him of his danger. That last spring, which he hoped would
have brought the fight to a bloody end, carried him clear of the edge,
and he found himself in an instant eight feet deep in the ice-cold
stream. Once and twice his gasping face and clutching fingers broke up
through the still green water, sweeping outwards in the swirl of the
current. In vain were sword-sheaths, apple-branches and belts linked
together thrown out to him by his companions. Alleyne had dropped his
shattered sword and was standing, trembling in every limb, with his rage
all changed in an instant to pity. For the third time the drowning man
came to the surface, his hands full of green slimy water-plants, his
eyes turned in despair to the shore. Their glance fell upon Alleyne,
and he could not withstand the mute appeal which he read in them. In an
instant he, too, was in the Garonne, striking out with powerful strokes
for his late foeman.

Yet the current was swift and strong, and, good swimmer as he was, it
was no eas